To The Victor, The Spoils
by alicegrey123
Summary: She had lost the battle, but the war waged on. Very slightly based on Reganx's Marquess of Pembroke challenge. Being continued on an ArchiveOfOurOwn.
1. Chapter 1

**Takes place between Anne being invested as the Marquess of Pembroke and the trip to Calais in 1532. Not at all historically accurate. **

* * *

_**Grafton Manor, October 1532**_

"Given birth?" Anne asked in a whisper, "_Given... birth?"_

"To a son," her uncle agreed mournfully, sitting down heavily into his chair and pushing the message towards her along the table. "And a prince, by all accounts, considering His Majesty's joy." Anne gaped at him, glancing down at the letter as if it was about to leap up and bite her. "The boy is strong and healthy, apparently the very image of the King."

Anne shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. "But... The trial... Blackfriars..."

Norfolk sighed. "Forgotten; the child has been interpreted as a good omen,_ surely _a sign from God that the marriage between Henry Tudor and Katherine of Aragon is a blessed and valid union." His tone clearly showed his distaste and annoyance at recent events, but he too was powerless. "The Queen is already churched; the babe christened Prince Edward of Wales, and is even now on progress to London from the More. That is not to say that all is well between their Majesties – as a married man myself, I doubt it will ever be as it was between them - but the Queen has been restored."

"Then I am ruined," Anne replied softly, a stray tear trickling down her cheek. "The King..."

"May still wish for you to be his mistress," her father said, hopeful yet for his family's ambitions. "He did offer you the position of maîtresse-en-titre, once."

Again, Anne shook her head. "It won't matter, not now. His Majesty will not displease the Queen by allowing me to remain at Court. He will have to send me away."

"Your daughter is right," Norfolk agreed with a nod, exhaling roughly. "The Queen's position is stronger than ever. She has given his Majesty a legitimate prince, one who looks likely to thrive, disproving the King's argument surrounding the disillusionment of their marriage. She will have the support of the Emperor, not to mention the King of France and the Pope. If Katherine's insistence is not enough to have Anne removed from court, the demands of her nephew will. We must assume that Anne is all but ruined."

Thomas Boleyn made a disgusted noise of disapproval. "What is to become of Anne?"

Gesturing to the unopened letter in his hands, Norfolk shrugged. "I would assume that the King will do his upmost to preserve what is left of her reputation. But the future appears bleak, as of yet. I do not hope for much. Anne is an unmarried lady and was the King's public mistress for a long time: without a husband to return to, she has no prospects to speak of. The King may offer to dower her handsomely, but no man would willingly marry a woman that the King still loves."

"Open it," Anne breathed, smoothing down her stomacher and swallowing her rising feeling of nausea. "Please."

Sparing his niece a pitiful glance, Norfolk nodded. His eyes focussed on the words and his brow furrowed, mouthing the contents as he read. He looked up sharply, staring bewildered across at his niece.

George Boleyn - previously silent - stood up. "Uncle? What is it?"

Norfolk tapped the parchment. "His Majesty allows you to retain your title of Marquess of Pembroke and further raises you to the dignity of a Duchess."

Her father gasped, resisting the urge to grab for the letter. "A Duchess?"

"Of Calais," Norfolk said, narrowing his eyes at the interruption. "You are to become the Duchess of Calais, the Marchioness of Buckingham, the Countess of Devonshire and the Baroness of Kent."

Anne looked up sharply. No woman had ever been raised so high in her own right, and it would seem now that Anne would outrank every woman at court, save the Queen herself. "Uncle..."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Norfolk went on, "He awards you lands and a property in Calais, a new London house, lands and Eastwell Manor in Kent, lands and Salcombe Castle in Devon, Thornbury Castle in Gloucester and lands in Ludlow, Pembroke and Carmarthen, as well as a further four hundred and fifty thousand pounds a year in pension." He stared at his niece in amazement. "The King has made you the richest peer in all of England; richer even than me." Norfolk shook his head again. "Unbelievable: Lady Anne Boleyn, my niece; owner of half of Wales and a great deal of England."

Thomas Boleyn sat down at the table. "We must take advantage of this," he began, turning to Norfolk, "As your Grace mentioned, it would have been difficult to find Anne a husband in our previous circumstances, but now..."

"I have no intention of marrying," Anne interjected coolly.

Her father glared across at her. "You will do as you are bid."

"No," she replied with a tight-lipped smile, "I have no need of a husband," Anne said again, "If the King truly means to make me a Duchess, then surely I have lands and houses and an income that will comfortably support me for the rest of my life. The last thing I want is to marry a man who cares naught for me, and only desires to steal what is mine."

His ire rising, Thomas Boleyn pushed himself from the table, his fists clenched against the wood, glowering at his youngest daughter. Behind her, her sister Mary was silent and pale, and George looked unsure of where to put himself. "You are my daughter; a Boleyn girl, a Howard girl. _You will do as you are bid."_ Thomas glanced at the Duke of Norfolk, expecting him to agree, but the Duke remained impassive.

"The girl is right, of course," Norfolk commented, "A marriage would only weaken her position at Court, and she would lose the remainder of the King's affections if she willingly agreed to such a thing."

Thomas looked at the Duke in horror. "Anne is _my daughter_, and if I say that she is to marry, then she is to _marry._ If she does not agree, I will simply go to the King and-" Upon seeing the small, satisfied smile on Anne's face, Thomas went quiet. "_Why _are you _smiling_?" He hissed, the veins in his forehead starting to bulge.

"Papa, do you really think the King will allow you to force me into marriage?" Anne stood up, calmly meeting her father's gaze. "The King loves me, father. The last thing that his Majesty will agree to is my marriage to another. He has given me the means to live independently because that is what he desires. He does not wish for me to marry."

In an attempt to placate his brother in law, Norfolk nodded. "We cannot know if these gifts are conditional to Anne remaining an unmarried woman, and it would be immoral to enquire about such a thing. She cannot afford to offend the King. Would you have your daughter married to a lowly noble only for her to lose her own ennoblements? Your family has been raised high, your daughter raised higher still - perhaps above even myself. She has been made the first lady at court, behind only the Queen herself, and I have no doubt that with such a generous pension, Anne's wealth would surpass the Queen's. Take what the King offers you and hold your tongue; the Boleyn's have broken cover – all of England knows that Anne aimed for a crown at your behest and missed, and you have been most fortunate that your daughter still has a head on her shoulders for trying to supplant their beloved Queen. To do otherwise would be foolhardy and immeasurably ignorant on your part."

Norfolk glanced at Anne, who looked quietly confident that she had won her argument. "No doubt you wish to be away from the court for a time, niece. Where will you go? To Pembroke, perhaps? Or to Devon? It is quite lovely in the summer months."

Anne shook her head, staring at her father even as she spoke in reply to her uncle. "To Calais, Uncle. And I shall take Mary and her children with me."

Predictably, her father exploded. "Out of the question! You will _not_ go to France without my permission and I do not grant it. And you will _certainly_ not be taking your sister anywhere."

"I do not _need _your permission," Anne replied, "I have my independence, now, and I intend to use it. Father, you have forced Mary to live in obscurity ever since her husband died; she was the King's mistress, as you bid, and still you punish her for faultlessly losing his favour. I will write to the King, if it pleases you, and obtain _his_ permission for Mary to accompany me, wherever I may chose to reside. I can comfortably provide for her."

"Independence?" Thomas Boleyn spluttered, ignoring her sentiments towards her sister, "You are an unmarried woman of nineteen, you have _nothing_ without my say so!"

"I have sacrificed my dignity, my reputation, my _heart _and my virtue for the elevation of this family," she said with barely contained rage, "I have surely earned the right to choose my own future, for my independence is the only thing I have left. You cannot take this from me, father. I will not allow it. It would do you well to remember that a Duchess is ranked above an Earl, regardless of the circumstances that have passed. I still have some standing with the King - I am sure he will not deny me my desires."

Outflanked by his daughter and unsupported by the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Boleyn turned away from the table. "So be it."

* * *

_**Whitehall, November 1532**_

Her investment as a Duchess happened in a hastily arranged ceremony at the Palace of Whitehall.

Henry insisted upon an informal, private audience with her first, in the gardens. He wore a doublet and hose of charcoal grey satin, as close to black as he dared. Anne had yet to change from her green riding habit, but the sadness in her eyes matched his own.

He found her sitting by the fountain, staring unseeing at her reflection. Her fingertips trailed in the water, her sleeve damp. She was sans an escort, but she saw no harm in this, for surely she had no reputation left to protect.

"Anne..."

She stiffened at the sound of his voice, but stood up and curtsied. "Your Majesty."

He approached her cautiously, grasping her hands between his. "Anne, please, look at me." His voice was pathetically desperate, and when she did raise her eyes to his, he was taken aback by the exhaustion there. "I am truly sorry..."

He trailed off, and Anne gently extracted her hands from his. "Your Majesty, your son is already very handsome."

Henry pulled a face. He had expected her to be angry, had anticipated one of her famous tantrums. He half-wanted her to shove him away, to shout and flail her arms around, at least then he would be able to react, but he had no defence against tired indifference. He gazed at her sadly, his heart clenching when her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away and stared at the ground, expressionless.

There were so many things that she wanted to ask, and yet she could not find the strength to summon the words from her throat. It was no longer her place to command answers from the King, and she was not a fool. To anger him now would be fickle – what would it achieve her? She had been lucky to receive such bountiful rewards for being his mistress, and as such would be afforded a life of luxury in which she would no longer have to pander to the whims of others.

She had fallen in love with a King who was not hers to love, and these were the consequences. Banishment, exile, disgrace... and yet, she had escaped with her life, and she found herself ludicrously grateful for Katherine's mercy. She wasn't sure she would have allowed Henry to bestow titles on a mistress, if she had been in Katherine's place.

"It didn't mean anything," he said, sitting down in the space that she had vacated. "It was a few weeks before she left... I never thought..." Anne inhaled sharply, and Henry looked up. "I am sorry. I beg you, Anne, my love... forgive me."

She closed her eyes and sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, willing away her bitter tears. A moment passed, and then she cupped his cheek with a shaking hand. "There is nothing to forgive, your Majesty."

He wanted to shake her, to make her see that he never had a choice. Katherine had given him a boy, a healthy boy – what else could he do but return to her favour? He was already embarrassed and ashamed, because of his actions in the first place and because of his cowardice in restoring Katherine to her rightful position without even a word of warning to the woman he had pledged to marry. He wanted to kiss her, to plead for her mercy, to beseech her to stay at court... but he knew, without asking, that she could not. "Anne..."

"Your Majesty," he hated her formality, loathed the cool detachment, "I implore you, if you ever cared for me at all... Please, do not ask to see me again."

He froze at her request, suddenly furious, standing up and starting to pace. "How can you say that to me?" He demanded, "I _love_ you."

"You have a wife and a Queen," she pointed out softly, her chin falling onto her chest, her eyes demurely averted, "There is no longer a place for me here. Indeed, I find myself rather excited to see my lands, perhaps travel Europe awhile." The words sounded false even to her ears, and her face crumpled. She did not fight as Henry pulled her into his arms, seating her on his lap and burying his face in her hair. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, beg him to deny Katherine's wishes. She longed to wrap her arms around him, to sob into his doublet, to say that she was happy to be only his mistress even if she was to be hidden away like a dirty secret, but she could not. Her mouth opened, and she let out a quiet sob. "Your Majesty..."

"I am sorry," he whispered in anguish, "Truly."

Anne nodded, wiping away her tears. She loved him, regardless of the politics and the ambition of her father, and it genuinely hurt to think that she might never see him again. "You have been most generous, your Majesty. I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for me and for my family. It is more than I had hoped for." She allowed the embrace to continue for a moment longer, and then she stood up. "With your permission, your Majesty, I will take my leave of you."

"You do not have my permission!" Henry cried, losing all grasp on his dignity now, "It is my desire that you remain here, with me. I _love_ you."

"Your Majesty..."

"_Henry_," he corrected, "Katherine isn't like you. She _isn't_ you."

Anne took a step away from him and curtsied, desperately seeking to be excused from this impossible situation but not daring to leave without his approval. "But she is your wife. She has your son."

"_You_ should be my wife," Henry insisted, "Anne, please..."

"Henry, what would you like me to say?" Anne asked him, exasperated and exhausted. "I cannot stay here and endure the shame of being cast aside. There is no place for me at court. There is no marriage to be made for me, no women to befriend. Your affections have raised me so high that all I can do now is fall, and you cannot be there to catch me. You are like a fire, your Majesty; one mustn't get too close for fear of being burned. I have been burned, badly... and I find I cannot bear the pain." She shook her head. "It is a man's right to be with his wife, but you _promised... _You _swore_ that there was nothing intimate between you anymore, and then nine months later the Prince was born. And that's wonderful – I am happy for you, truly, for you have an heir and a Queen beloved by the people. But do not expect me to remain here and be mocked by the Court for loving you. I must go, Henry, don't you see? There is no other choice, no other way for me to survive."

"Go then!" He spat, gesturing wildly, "Go, and see if you can find another man to love you as I have!"

Anne sighed. "Your Majesty..."

"Go!" The King thundered, "Get out of my sight!"

...

The entire court was in attendance to witness her defeat. The majority were unsmiling; some seemed sympathetic, others unmoved. Only the Queen, the Princess Mary, and the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk seemed pleased.

Anne Boleyn - regardless of her insufferable grasping father and his immoral intentions - was one of the jewels of the English court. Beautiful, witty and educated. Her presence would be missed by many, even those who didn't much like her. It was evident that she was being both rewarded and punished; rewarded for truly loving the King, punished by the Queen for daring to think she could ever replace her.

Only Anne and Henry knew how close she had been to truly supplanting Katherine, and only the wistful sadness in the King's eyes gave away his true feelings at his current situation. He finally had the son he had so longed for, but in the process he had lost the only woman he had ever genuinely loved; had he been consulted beforehand, he wasn't sure he would have made the trade.

In the hour that had passed between their conversation by the fountain and the ceremony, Anne had changed her gown and Henry's temper had cooled into feelings of heartbroken melancholy.

A legitimate prince was better for England – Anne was better for _him_.

He couldn't look at Anne when she entered his audience chamber, focussing instead on a spot behind her head and staring blankly at it even when she was in a deep curtsey before him.

On his right sat the Queen, triumph oozing from her every pore, her hands clasped in her lap. She smiled down at the lady before her, as if she had never had a fear for her position or her life, ever graceful, ever dignified.

"I thank God for this most surprising and blessed event, your Majesties," Anne offered quietly, keeping her eyes from Henry's face. "And must express my gratitude, for I am surely unworthy to receive the wonderful gifts you have so kindly given to me."

He had hurt her. By God, he'd thought that Katherine couldn't even _have_ any more children, and so his farewell dalliance with her so long ago had been nothing more than him saying goodbye to the woman whom had shared his life for almost twenty years. He had never imagined...

He already loved his son; little prince Edward was indeed a healthy infant, already possessing many of his father's qualities. And there could be no question – the babe had the golden hair of Elizabeth of York, the Tudor chin, Arthur's long toes – the child was definitely his. And Katherine, God, he could hardly bear to be around her. She was polite to him, as she always had been, but there was something else now in her smiles, a danger that had not been there before. His daughter princess Mary was also present, standing to the side amongst the gathered nobles with a secretive grin on her face, revelling in the disgrace of the woman who had sought to supplant her mother.

And Anne... In her sadness, in her defeat, she was more beautiful – more _regal_ \- than she had ever been. Her indigo blue gown brought out her eyes, her skin seemed to glow with an otherworldly hue, her dark hair cascading down her back in a waterfall of curls. When he had finally found the courage to look at her, her eyes had been uncharacteristically blank, as if she was unwilling to acknowledge that he had broken her heart, and he had been astonished by her lack of emotion.

She was utterly dignified, resplendent and regal; in this moment, Anne Boleyn looked like a Queen, and was breathtaking in her tragedy.

Henry squeezed his eyes closed, unable to look upon her for a moment longer, but it was his wife who answered. "You are most kind, Lady Anne, as always. And, of course, most _deserving._"

A murmur echoed around the court at this thinly veiled insult, but Anne didn't flinch.

Unlike when he had made her a Marquess, it was Cromwell who placed the ermine robes around her shoulders, and when Henry removed her Marquess' tiara from her head and replaced it with the heavier diadem of a Duke – again, she was given a man's coronet, making it clear that she was being raised to the dignity of a Duke in spite of the female title of Duchess – Anne maintained her impassive expression.

She curtsied deeply and thanked him for his generosity, her voice calm and steady. She met his eyes only for a moment and then glanced away, as if overawed by his presence.

"With so many lands and properties to visit, you must be overwhelmed with the desire to visit them all. Of course, we grant you the time and the grace to do so," Katherine stated cordially, leaning back in her chair and smiling as if it was a great honour to be banished from Court for an undetermined amount of time.

"I had thought to go to France," Anne reluctantly replied, "Perhaps attend to my new estates; spend some time at the French court. My sister and I did so enjoy it there when we were children."

Katherine's eyes narrowed at the mention of the _other_ Boleyn whore who had also successfully seduced her husband. "Then, we pray that you both find happiness there."

At this, Anne looked up at Katherine, her icy blue eyes meeting Katherine's brown ones, and Katherine smiled, flicking her fingers in dismissal. For so long, she had anticipated this moment, hopelessly praying that she would see her rival sent away, but she found no solace in the actual event.

Perhaps the girl had truly loved the King.

Perhaps the relationship between the King and his mistress had been indeed pure and chaste, as Henry had once claimed.

Perhaps she had genuinely believed in the heresy that she had promoted.

Katherine almost felt sorry her.

Almost.

Anne curtsied again, backing away from the dais with her head lowered. And then, when her back was turned, Anne's lips curled into a small, troubling little smile.

* * *

**A.N/ I'm aware that Anne was much older than nineteen when she was made the Marquess of Pembroke, probably closer to thirty than twenty, but for the purpose of this story she needs to be much younger. All will be revealed in due course. **


	2. Chapter 2

**_Palais du Louvre, Paris. - June, 1535_**

The Duchess ignored the stares that burned her as she entered, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at their wary expressions. Wives clutched tightly at their husbands, the younger daughters of the gentry looked away, and, as one, the men stared.

The swish of her skirts on the polished wooden floor was the only sound; the fabric gleamed in the dim lighting, and in perfect unison the fashionable ladies of the French court sighed in delight at her opulent appearance.

She made little effort to quell their prejudgements. Her gown was cut low and squarely on her chest, offering the swell of her breasts as a feast for the eyes. Around her neck hung the infamous Boleyn pendant, the pearls contrasting heavily with her olive skin that had darkened further still in the summer sun. The gown – a sapphire blue overskirt and sleeves with an ivory brocade stomacher and kirtle – hugged her willowy figure to perfection, cinching in at her elegantly small waist and flaring deliciously around her rear as it belled to the floor in the desired French way. The sleeves were cut short to her wrists, slashed at her inner arm to reveal the translucent silk undershirt beneath.

She approached the dais, curtseying lowly for the French King and Queen. "Your Majesties," she said quietly, her eyes cast to the floor in a show of deference.

King Francis gestured for her to stand and she did so, rising like steam from hot water. "La Belle Anne," he complimented, "La Duchesse de Calais. Beinvenue, Madame, to our court."

"Thank you, your Majesty. You are most kind." Anne glanced at his wife, Queen Claude, and was not at all surprised by the scorn she saw in her eyes.

Unlike most English visitors to the French court, Anne was not there on an official capacity. She and her sister Mary had been given an extended invitation by King Francis himself for the purpose of 'the making of merriment and joy', and those who were aware of it were scandalized by the thought that Anne Boleyn could have entangled a second monarch into her whore's web.

She had been made aware beforehand that the Duke of Suffolk would also be in attendance at the French court, attempting to settle the disputes surrounding the Prince Edward's marriage to King Francis' daughter Princess Margaret, the Duchess of Berry. Although Anne was unsure of her feelings towards seeing Charles Brandon again, Anne felt more at ease simply by being at the French court as opposed to the English counterpart.

Whilst the French court did not quite live up to its scandalous reputation of whoring and gambling and all things sinful, there was a certain and delightful lax in the demands for propriety and ceremony. King Francis had not been born as the heir apparent to the French throne, and so had matured as a courtier before it became evident that the Duchess Anne of Brittany would not produce a male heir for King Louis XII.

He had been raised in a royal household, true enough, but with enough freedom to enjoy his youth and develop his understanding for the need of a renaissance. As such, the French court was a richly cultured environment, filled with painters and philosophers and musicians: Anne was likely to thrive there as a woman of independent means, rather than a child attending upon Queen Claude as she had been before.

...

Her confident 'French manner' that had marked her out as so unusual in England meant that she settled well amongst the outspoken French noblewomen, spending her time with Marguerite of Navarre, King Francis' sister.

She did, however, manage to avoid the Duke of Suffolk for little over a month, and was most surprised when he asked for her opinion.

* * *

**_Palais du Louvre, Paris. - August, 1535_**

"Anne Boleyn."

Recognising his voice, Anne stood and curtsied shallowly for the Duke, aware that his male birth demanded her respect. "Your Grace," she offered, her lips curling slightly in amusement when he raised her hand to his lips.

"My lady," Charles replied. "The passage of time has done little to alter your beauty."

Anne raised a sceptical eyebrow. "You flatter me, your Grace."

"Such flattery is well deserved," Suffolk maintained, unable to resist a swift glimpse of her décolletage. Her forest-green satin gown faultlessly complimented her colouring, and the delicate embroidery of the silver kirtle went well with the opal necklace that sat heavily on her chest. Charles spoke the truth, in any case; Anne Boleyn seemed to have truly blossomed. Her ebony brown hair was pinned back away from her face, the curls falling down her back. Matching opals shone at her ears and in a circlet of jewels around her head. Charles could not help but compare her striking youthful beauty with the aged, withering Queen that lingered on in England at Henry's side.

"Then I am humbled by it." The quirk of her lips indicated that she knew the direction of his thoughts. Anne met his eyes fearlessly and Charles shivered; such power lay within her irises. He had never liked Anne Boleyn - he thought her sly and manipulative, remembering a time when she and not him had been Henry's closest confidant - but even he could not deny how attractive she was in her own way.

She was no docile English rose, to be seen and not heard; she was Anne Boleyn, dark and confident and sensually beautiful. She blinked slowly, tilting her head slightly and narrowing her eyes. "Is there something wrong, your Grace?"

Charles looked away, hooking her arm through his. "Walk with me a while. The night is pleasant and dry, and I should like an English opinion on these French matters that trouble me so greatly." His tone allowed no room for argument and she gave him none, allowing him to guide her away from the feast and out into the balmy late-summer evening.

When the sounds of courtly revelry could no longer be heard, Anne glanced up at him again. "What would your Grace like to discuss?"

Suffolk looked uncomfortable. "Call me Charles, I insist."

"If you wish," she said with a small shrug, resolving never to address him so familiarly regardless of what he insisted.

"Queen Katherine insists upon a Spanish marriage for her son," Suffolk began, slowing the pace of their walk a little. "Such a thing is currently impossible."

"I had quite forgotten the war with Spain," Anne admitted softly, a faraway look in her eyes. "The problems of England are easily overlooked when one no longer resides there."

Charles stiffened. "Surely the Duke of Norfolk has written and informed you of such things?"

"The Duke of Norfolk persists that my sex is reason enough to keep me in the dark on any manner of things. In any case, England's woes do not trouble me. I am a long-forgotten mistress," she said with a sigh, "What bothers the Privy Council is no business of mine."

"Do you really believe that to be true?" Charles asked her, stopping suddenly and stepping in front of her. "That you are long-forgotten?"

Anne met his eyes, tilting her face up towards his. "What else am I to believe, your Grace?" she asked, "His Majesty has never written to me and I have yet to receive an invitation to return to court. I am exiled here, in disgrace, because I fell in love. I will admit that at first I was reluctant to encourage his Majesty's attentions, but I loved him deeply. It mattered not that he was the King; I loved him as a man." She shook her head, chasing away the melancholy sadness that bloomed unchecked in her heart. "In any case, I certainly feel forgotten."

Though he could see her argument, Charles shook his head. "His Majesty is most unhappy in his marriage to the Queen. He fills his days with politics and religion and sport, surrounding himself with men - your brother in particular. He has long since forsaken the comforts of the marriage bed, if he has visited it at all, and very rarely does he take mistresses. I believe that the King still loves you, my Lady."

Anne was unable to stop her wince. "I beg you, your Grace, desist."

Charles mercifully changed the subject. "The Queen claims it is only her influence that prevents the Emperor invading England, and whilst the King is eager for war, he would rather the devastation be wreaked upon foreign soil. An invasion of England is the last thing he wants. The Emperor's army surpasses his own five to one, but at sea the English navy have the advantage."

"The Queen is gravely mistaken," she quietly revealed, "The Emperor will never dare to invade England, not while England is allied to France."

"How do you know this?" Suffolk demanded.

Anne looked away, worrying that her secret might show in her eyes. "His Majesty King Francis has sworn to protect England from the armies of the Emperor. The swords of France are closer than the swords of England, and should England and France come together on a battlefield in a joint venture against the Emperor it would be a sorry day for Spain."

Suffolk narrowed his eyes. "Why would King Francis do such a thing?"

"I know not, your Grace," Anne replied, moving backwards a little to make space between their bodies. "But he has given his word to do so. He plans to tie the Princess Margaret to England's fate; in what manner, I am unsure."

Charles made a noise of frustration. "Then why is he reluctant to consent to the marriage between Prince Edward and the Princess Margaret? Surely that would be the best way to do such a thing."

"I cannot speak on behalf of the King of France and I would not presume to know his thoughts."

"Behind the Queen, you are the most powerful woman in England," Charles hissed, resisting the urge to grasp her upper arms and shake her. "King Henry has made you as wealthy as a royally born princess, and were you a man you would outrank all others at the English court. You have a great deal of influence in France, whether you will acknowledge it or not, and I cannot help but think that you are somehow deliberately causing problems for this betrothal."

"I am a disgraced whore, your Grace, with or without my titles; surely my word is folly on such matters," Anne said with a shrug, her eyes narrow, "I believe you are overestimating my power."

"And I believe that you are a liar, Mistress Anne," he spat in reply, "I believe that you know a great deal more than you will admit. To withhold information from the King of England and his advisors is treason, as you well know."

"You overstep, your Grace."

Charles whirled around and his eyes widened as the French King stepped out of the shadows. He bowed deeply, unwilling to offend the monarch. "Your Majesty, I-"

"No," Francis said softly, "The Duchesse de Calais has made her point perfectly clear. She is not at liberty to divulge my innermost thoughts, and you are a villain to degrade her so with your false accusations."

Charles glanced at Anne, who was carefully expressionless, her gaze lowered.

Francis stepped into place beside her, and Charles could not help but feel slightly intimidated by the taller man. The height of the French King was a thing of great reputation; to his enemies, he was ungainly and unnaturally tall; to his allies and to those who admired him, Francis was a magnificent giant amongst the mere mortals that were his inferiors. Charles Brandon was a tall man, but Francis towered over him by almost an entire head.

"Your Grace will apologise to the Duchess," Francis instructed, his brow quirking expectantly when Charles appeared reluctant.

"I am sorry to have caused offence, your Grace," Charles finally said, using Anne's title for the first time. "It was not my intention. I fear my temper escaped me for a moment and you were the victim of such an event. I apologise."

To his surprise, Anne did not seem at all triumphant to see him shamed so. "I accept your apology, your Grace," she replied quietly, "With your Majesty's permission, I will retire for the evening."

Francis nodded and Anne curtsied shallowly, first to the French King and then to the Duke of Suffolk.

Her stormy eyes fell onto Charles. "Goodnight, your Grace."

The two men watched her leave, and Charles Brandon was struck by the thought that once again, Anne Boleyn had managed to ally herself with another King.

...

He watched her at luncheon from his table, observing the way she smiled at her attendants and spoke softly to those she considered her friends. Her behaviour was inoffensive and he could not find fault with her, until a laughing King Francis entered the dining hall with a rabble of children behind him.

Directly behind their father were Francis' many children; Francis, the heir apparent, Henry, Madeleine, Charles, and Margaret, the youngest of his issue at the age of four.

The French court was a place of laughter and light heartedness, where the royal children resided with the court year-round, and King Francis even allowed his bastard children to interact with their legitimate siblings.

This was evident, particularly now, as several of Francis' illegitimate children were deep in conversation with the French Princes and Princesses, and Francis himself occasionally turned to address one child or another, regardless of their parentage. It was clear that the French King delighted in the company of children, readily joining in their games and organising tourneys just for the younger members of the court, with wooden swords and child-size armour.

Even the children of Mary Boleyn – Henry (rumoured to be the unacknowledged bastard of the King of England) and Catherine – were amongst the group of children, laughing and talking without a care for ceremony.

But then Charles' eye was drawn by a small boy, undoubtedly the youngest of the group, barely more than a toddler, who was quietly walking beside the Princess Margaret. The boy had dark hair and bright blue eyes, but his face did not resemble those of any of Francis' bastards. His features bore a slight similarity to Henry Carey, Mary Boleyn's son, but seemed too different in colouring to be the child's natural brother.

Suffolk's sharp eyes noticed the way Francis placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, and the adoring way the boy in return smiled up at the French King.

"Majesté," the boy said, bowing shallowly at the King. Francis nodded approvingly to Anne – who smiled back - and the boy scampered off, taking a seat between her and Mary Boleyn.

The Duchess of Calais seemed perfectly at ease being seated beside the child, and Suffolk was much surprised by how unusual it was to see Anne Boleyn conversing so readily with a small child. His understanding of French was limited, causing him to miss a great deal of what the two spoke of, but he could not miss the familiarity between the two.

It was only when Anne raised a spoonful of soup to her mouth in perfect synchronisation with the small boy that Charles Brandon came to a potentially cataclysmic realisation.

Anne Boleyn had a child.

Anne Boleyn had a _son._

He was sure of it.

...

"Excellency, how old is the son of the Duchess of Calais?"

The English ambassador glanced at the Duke of Suffolk curiously. "I wasn't aware that her Grace had a son," he replied, his tone honest, "The boy who sits with her at mealtimes is King Francis' ward. He is perhaps two or three years old and appears to have taken a liking to the Duchess. She does not mind it and the King is most pleased to have such a patron for the child."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "The child is the double of the Lady Anne," he pointed out, "Surely you can see the resemblance?"

The Ambassador shrugged. "Even so, your Grace, many women have illegitimate children. No public acknowledgement has been made of the child's parentage, and her Grace shows the boy no more favour than her niece and nephew. There is no reason to suggest that the boy is the child of Anne Boleyn, my lord Suffolk. Perhaps you are imagining scandal where there is none."

"That boy is Anne Boleyn to the life," Charles insisted, "His dark hair, his eyes..."

"Many children have dark hair and blue eyes, your Grace," the Ambassador gently interrupted. "The Duchess of Calais is a most gracious lady; she is well liked at the French court and seems recovered from the sadness of her past. She has found friendship with the Queen of Navarre, and King Francis often shows her favour. I believe it would be unwise to publicly circulate such a rumour – to do so would anger King Francis, not to mention offend his Majesty King Henry."

Charles gave a non-committal grunt, but inwardly acknowledged the truth of that statement. King Henry still held many fond memories of Anne Boleyn and was unwilling to hear her name spoken of negatively in the English courts. The only person in England who dared to speak out against the Duchess was the Queen herself, and even then it was to her own detriment. She had long-since lost Henry's affections, and since the birth of the prince, Henry had only twice shared the bed of the Queen – both to her insistence. Neither time had conceived a child, and since the Queen's monthly blood had ceased almost a year ago, Henry had yet to speak with her privately at all.

Their interactions happened in public where there were many witnesses, and whilst nobody could deny that the King was polite and cordial to his wife, it was similarly acknowledged that he blamed her for the loss of his 'great love'. He had taken two or three mistresses since Anne's departure from court, but he didn't shower them with gifts or love notes as he had Anne. They were whores who shared his bed, who fulfilled his urges, but Henry was careful to never contract a child with any of the women that he invited to his bedchamber.

Only recently had the King of England cheered a little, at the arrival of a new lady in court, the Lady Jane Seymour, daughter of Sir John Seymour, a practical nobody who had fought behind Henry's father in the Battle of Bosworth.

The Lady Jane was quiet, polite, and beautiful.

Charles thought that perhaps Henry enjoyed her serenity and innocence, her utter lack of guile, and though their friendship had thus far remained chaste, rumours were starting to circulate of Seymour ambitions upon the English throne. It would not be long before the Seymour men were pushing the girl into the King's bed, her religious devotion be damned.

Charles' personal opinion on the Lady Jane Seymour was that, while she was generally pleasant, she lacked spirit and true character; she was acceptably educated, but not enough to converse in matters of politics or philosophy; she was wonderfully _obedient_ and submissive, never daring to be provocative, never disagreeing with the King; even her clothes - whilst reasonably fashionable - were terribly conservative, her necklines consistenly high, her bodice never too tight.

Although he could see that the presence of Lady Jane Seymour was soothing to a miserable King, he disliked being around her, and he could see from the beginning that their 'courtship' was doomed. Regardless of her pretty blonde hair and virtuous, agreeable manner, she lacked all of Anne's charisma and commanding presence. She wasn't intelligent or even reasonably interesting, and she wasn't one to stir emotion. She would never inspire sonnets or poems and she would never be able to fill the Anne Boleyn shaped hole in Henry Tudor's heart.

The Boleyn family remained high in favour, and King Henry chose to spend a lot of his time with George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, the remaining Boleyn sibling at the English court. It was no secret that George was a great deal like Anne; daring, charming and entertaining, and all of England could see that their King pined for a woman that he could not have.

But Katherine's influence over King Henry was waning, Charles knew, and it would only be a matter of time before Anne Boleyn was summoned back to court.

...

That evening, at dinner, a pageant had been planned for the departure of the Duke of Suffolk and his party. Negotiations over the betrothal of Prince Edward and Princess Margaret had come to a standstill, and Suffolk could not help but feel bitter about having journeyed to France without reaching a conclusion.

He was to return to England with unwelcome news, and was not at all looking forward to presenting it to the King.

Henry would be most displeased with the outcome of the visit.

In the French way, the pageant was elaborate, decadent and provocative, almost unsuitable for many of the younger women in the hall. Suffolk could not help but be swept along by the merriment; such a thing was infectious and provided a welcome distraction from his gloomy thoughts.

When the feasting was over and the dancing commenced, Suffolk was most surprised and unexpectedly perturbed to see King Francis lead Anne Boleyn out in the first dance of the evening. The way Francis stared across at her, his heady gaze locked on Anne as they danced; it was almost scandalous, as if he was undressing her with his eyes.

Though Anne seemed to do little to encourage his obvious attraction towards her, she allowed him several further dances, until laughingly insisting that she must drink something lest she collapse.

King Francis seemed reluctant to release her, but when he caught the disapproving glare of his wife he nodded and excused the Duchess of Calais. Anne curtsied lowly, her eyes closing for a moment. "Majesté," she said quietly, and when she looked back at the King, he looked ready to pull her against him and demand that she dance some more.

Charles Brandon was a witness to that look. He had seen _that_ look many times before on his own beguiled monarch, and it did not bode well for King Henry that another man was so obviously pursuing Anne Boleyn, especially when that man was the King of France.

It was no secret that Queen Claude was often ill, her body tired and prematurely aged by birthing so many children. It was a shame that nobody had seen fit to inform Thomas Boleyn of King Francis' interest in Anne, Charles thought; it would only have been a matter of weeks before Queen Claude was poisoned and Anne again thrust towards a throne.

Anne laughed coyly at the expression on Francis' face, bringing Charles back to the present. Francis held out his hand to her, silently imploring her to dance again, and after a moment of deliberation, Anne placed her hand in his.

Indeed, Suffolk thought worriedly as he took a hearty swig from his wine, there was much to report.

* * *

**_Hampton Court Palace, London. - October, 1535_**

"...It is my understanding that King Francis greatly desires her Grace the Duchess of Calais," Brandon went on, "He seemed completely enamored with her, dancing with her often."

Henry shoved himself away from the table and kicked away his chair, his jaw and fists clenched. "Is she his mistress?" he demanded, "If he _dares_ to lay a claim on what is already mine I will wage such a war..."

"I do not believe so, your Majesty," Charles interjected, before Henry could make any real threats. "She did not appear to return his advances, but..."

"But _what_?" The King hissed, "What else?"

Suffolk seemed hesistant to speak. He wanted to mention the possibility of Anne having a child, and felt he should, for moral purposes; his friend was deeply in love with a woman who might have had a child by another. And yet, he knew that to say nothing, when many had been witness to the interaction between Anne and the child, would further risk the King's anger at having not been told. "I have no proof of this, of course," he began, "But I have strong reason to believe that Anne Boleyn has a child."

Henry stiffened, turning from the window to stare across at the Duke of Suffolk. "_What?"_

Wincing at the ice in the King's tone, Charles went on, "There was an... An interaction, between the Duchess of Calais and a small boy, no more than three years old. He was the image of her, your Majesty, and she seemed most taken with him."

"And did you ask her about the child?" Henry asked, sorrowful now, "Did you seek clarification?"

"I spoke to our Ambassador," Suffolk allowed, "He informed me that the child was King Francis' ward, and had simply taken a liking to the Duchess. The Ambassador also reports that the Duchess does not show particular favour towards the child, treating him no differently than she does her sister's children, but the resemblance between the Duchess and the boy was too much to ignore."

Henry's voice became soft and dangerous. "King Francis has a ward who is the image of Anne Boleyn?"

Swallowing, Suffolk wordlessly nodded.

Henry glared across at the Duke. "Is the child his bastard? Are you suggesting that the Duchess of Calais has an illegitimate son by the King of France?"

"I do not know, your Majesty. King Francis always acknowledges his illegitimate children, but the Ambassador said no such thing had happened. I could not ask the Lady- the _Duchess_ for fear of offending her." Charles hoped that this would be enough. He had no other answers left to give. Seeing that the Henry was somewhat placated that Anne had not had a child with the King of France, Charles took a step towards him. "She thinks you have forgotten her, Henry," he said softly, not wanting anyone to overhear the familiar address. "The Duchess believes that you have forgotten her."

"Bring her back," Henry said suddenly, "By God, Charles, bring her back to me."


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for your lovely reviews. Just a reminder that - in this story - Anne left the English court in November 1532. By that time she had already been intimate with Henry numerous times; for example, on the day of Wolsey's death and the two were together in the woods, Henry perfomed coitus interruptus at Anne's insistence in an effort to stop him conceiving a child with her. Also, I'm going to apologise now for what will be sporadic updates. I start my English degree in two weeks and I have a hell of a lot of pre-course reading to do. **

* * *

**_Château of Fontainebleau, South of Paris –Late November, 1535_**

It took little over a month for the English Ambassador to receive notification of King Henry VIII's wishes concerning the Duchess of Calais, due to the winter storms that raged almost constantly over the English Channel. In comparison to some seas, the expanse of water separating England and France was narrow in width and shallow in depth, but the cooling climate made the sea treacherous, and it was not unusual for even the savviest of sailors to run aground rocks when a storm blew in.

In the six weeks that had passed, the French court had also moved to the Château of Fontainebleau, one of King Francis' favourite residences, for the Christmastide season.

Though the weather did not reach such chilly temperatures in France as it did in England, it was still pleasantly frosty and the rural location meant that the court could better enjoy the French countryside in the midst of winter.

The Château of Fontainebleau wasn't far from Paris, but as the temperature dropped further and the land became cloaked in white, the inner-city seemed an entire world away.

With their outdoor activities limited, the Court retreated inside. Festive masques and pageants were organised and rehearsed. The men gambled more, losing and winning and losing again. The children grew restless; there was only so much entertainment to be found in the walls of a Court, and though their tutors pressed them to concentrate on their lessons, the boys especially were easily distracted by the promise of sweetmeats and candies.

...

The English Ambassador hovered awkwardly at the entrance to Anne's chambers. As a Duchess, and a woman who held the King's favour, Anne had grand rooms, with a spacious ante-chamber that had an generously sized area for her to entertain visitors, a large dining table with ornately carved wooden chairs, and a seating area close to a magnificent fireplace. Leading off of this grand chamber were several bedrooms, for Anne and her sister. As was the custom, the children all slept in the royal nursery – a specific portion of the Château wherein they could run reasonably wild, without disturbing the balance of the more adult side of the court.

The man appeared startled when a maid-in-waiting exited, his presence surprising her to such a degree that she dropped the parcels in her arms and blushed furiously.

"Forgive me, Excellency," the woman began, "I was not expecting to see you." She crouched down and began to gather the items, her face reddening further when he bent down to help her. "You do not need to-"

The man waved off her protests. "The Duchess; she is in her rooms?"

Cautiously, the maid nodded. "With her sister, sir; they are preparing gifts for the children." Having collected up the parcels, the two stood. "Thank you for your assistance, Excellency. With your permission..."

He gestured for her to leave, and sighed heavily, not at all looking forward to the conversation that would follow.

...

"_His Excellency, the English Ambassador."_

Anne slowly inclined her head, her expression guarded. "Your Excellency," she said with a polite smile, "Won't you sit down? My sister and I are almost finished."

The two sisters finished their conversation with the cloth merchant, and having been assured that their orders would be ready in time, they paid the man generously. He bowed deeply – and unnecessarily flamboyantly, the English Ambassador noticed with distaste – and excused himself.

Mary Carey lifted herself slightly from the table, but a swift glance from Anne made her retake her seat. Mary nodded at one of the maids. "Some wine for his Excellency."

The Duchess turned to the Ambassador, a tired expression on her face. "Unburden yourself, Excellency."

"I have a message from his Majesty." He appeared slightly reluctant, and Anne seized upon it.

"Then, I beseech you, do not deliver it."

Reaching into an inside pocket for a crumpled piece of parchment, the Ambassador sighed resignedly. "I am sure your Grace knew that this day was coming."

Anne closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself. "Then my suspicions were correct. The Duke of Suffolk has informed King Henry of my friendship with King Francis."

"Yes," the Ambassador replied quietly, "His Majesty is most disturbed by such news."

"But there is something else," Anne acknowledged, taking a sip from her wine. "Isn't there?"

The Ambassador nodded. "The child was mentioned," He allowed, "The King would very much like to meet him."

Mary Carey sniffed. "Of course he does," she said bitterly, angry at King Henry for the way he had ignored her sister for the past couple of years and at the Duke for ruining their peaceful lives. "Damn you, Charles Brandon."

Anne placed a hand over her sister's. "Be still, Mary. It was only a matter of time."

"His Majesty King Henry requests that you return to court." The Ambassador slowly opened the parchment, smoothing the wrinkles and placing it onto the table in front of Anne. "He understands that the weather and tides will hinder your return, but hopes to see you at Whitehall by April."

"Requests?" Anne repeated, alert to the phrasing of the note, "_Hopes_ to see me? He does not demand my presence?"

Correctly interpreting her words, the Ambassador pulled a face. "Your Grace, it would be unwise to offend his Majesty by not fulfilling his wishes."

"I shall not go without a summons," the Duchess replied steadily, inclining her head. "Whilst it is true I do miss the English court, and my brother George, it is not a place that I am anxious to see again." She shook her head. "No, Excellency. His Majesty will have to insist upon my return. You may tell him that King Francis will be reluctant to dismiss me from court without an official request; such a thing is true, in any case."

"Your Grace..." the man said uneasily, "His Majesty will be most displeased by your response."

Anne's eyes narrowed haughtily. "I care not," she answered with a cold smile, "Perhaps if the King had written to me himself, I would think differently. Perhaps if my presence were required for in an official capacity, I would think differently. But he insults me by sharing his desires in such a manner. I am the Duchess of Calais, not a mere lady in waiting."

"Anne," Mary interjected with a gentle touch to her sister's arm, "He is still the King of England."

"I care not," Anne repeated, but her tone had lost some of its ire. She was quiet for a moment, lost in thought, and a deep sadness swam in her eyes. She lightly touched Mary's hand and nodded her head towards her jewellery chest. Mary stood and retrieved the chest, placing it down onto the table. Anne delved inside, producing a small item wrapped in velvet. "Please give this to his Majesty as a Christmastide gift," she said softly. "But do not do so in the presence of others. His official gift was sent back to England with the Duke of Suffolk, but I would like you to deliver this personally, Excellency."

The Ambassador raised an eyebrow. "As your Grace wishes."

Anne looked a little embarrassed. "I am aware that there is only a short time left until the gifts are received at court, but I trust that your Excellency has a way to ensure that this gift reaches England in time? Deliver it together with my refusal to come to court, and ask his Majesty to open the gift before giving his response."

Avoiding her sister's gaze, Anne stood, and the Ambassador followed her example. "Your Grace, I will do as you have asked."

"Thank you, Excellency. Return to England, now, at my behest. There is no business in France for you at this time. It must be long since you have seen your family and I do not doubt that your wife misses you." Anne watched as he pocketed the velvet parcel. "Keep it safe," she murmured, "It is for the King's eyes alone."

The Ambassador bowed. "Your Grace; Lady Carey: I bid you a merry Christmastide."

Having waited until the Ambassador had left, Mary turned to her sister with words on her lips, but Anne held up a hand. "Your disapproval is evident enough, sister. Peace, now, I beg you. I am weary.

* * *

**_Greenwich Palace, London. –December, 1535_**

"Your Majesty, his Excellency Sir Nicholas Wotton."

Henry looked up sharply as the English Ambassador to France entered his ante-chamber. He had been most surprised when the Ambassador had requested a private audience, aware of the news that the man was carrying. He wasn't entirely sure how he was expecting Anne to reply. He missed her - by God, not a day passed that he didn't long to hear her laugh or see the hidden depths of her stormy blue eyes - but he was almost frightened of seeing her again, unaware of her feelings towards him after three long years apart.

The Ambassador bowed deeply. "Your Majesty."

Impatiently, Henry gestured for the man to begin.

"I regret to inform your Majesty that the Duchess of Calais has declined your invitation to return to the English court," the man began, his voice only wavering slightly as he spoke - something Henry gave him credit for.

"Of course she did," Henry muttered, resting his head in his hands, resisting the urge to break something expensive. "I suppose she gave a perfectly diplomatic and well prepared excuse?"

The Ambassador struggled for a moment. "Her Grace said that the King of France would be unwilling to excuse her from court without an official summons."

Henry clenched his jaw. "Anything else?"

"Yes, your Majesty." The Ambassador produced the small velvet parcel and knelt before King Henry, offering the gift up to him. "From the Duchess, your Majesty. She requested that I give it to you privately, in person."

Henry's brow furrowed, but he took the gift. When he noticed that the Ambassador was staring up at him, clearly interested to see what was within, he clutched it to his torso possessively and flicked his fingers in dismissal. "I will see you in the morning, Ambassador."

When he had been left alone, Henry slowly opened the tiny silk button that held the parcel closed. He slid his finger inside and blinked when he came into contact with a ring and a small piece of parchment. Made of the finest silver, it looked just about large enough to fit his smallest finger. Admiring the oval-shaped sapphire that adorned the ring, Henry slid it onto his finger, pleased that it seemed to fit so perfectly, as if commissioned specifically for him. The longer he stared at the jewel, the more colours he saw within, and began to see that the colour of the sapphire was the exact shade of blue of Anne's eyes.

He traced his thumb slowly over the gem, absurdly grateful for the token, and recalled the parchment that had accompanied the ring.

The wax seal was stamped with her crest, and he was reluctant to disturb the image, but his curiosity won out, and Henry opened the letter without much more of a thought.

For a moment, he was overcome by the significance of the event. It was the first time he had received anything directly from Anne – he didn't include the official Christmastide gifts that she had sent each year, as well chosen as they had been – and the thought made his stomach twist.

He unfolded the parchment, surprised that she had managed to fit such a large piece into such a small parcel.

Henry traced her handwriting, the elegant script making his lips curl into a small smile.

"_To His most gracious Majesty,_

Great Sovereign Lord, I wish you a happy Christmastide and a pleasant New Year, and hope that this gift finds your Majesty well. I pray that your Majesty can forgive my crude writing, as I write in candlelight. I am greatly humbled by your Majesty's continued gratitude and grace towards me, and your health and happiness is in my every prayer.  
Your Majesty's presence is as the sun, and I find myself in sorrowful moonlight. I can offer only this verse, and hope its meaning expresses my feelings far better than my own humble self is able.

**_'The mountains may be removed and the hills may shake,  
But My loving kindness will not be removed from you,  
And My covenant of peace will not be shaken.  
O afflicted one, storm-tossed, and not comforted,  
Behold, I will set your stones in antimony,  
And your foundations I will lay in sapphires.'_**

From your faithful and obedient servant,  
Yours, always, with true heart.  
Anne Boleyn."

He was most surprised by the contents of the letter and by the gift itself.

Sapphires were associated with sincerity and faithfulness, and he knew in that moment, almost for certain, that Anne was not King Francis' mistress.

The letter puzzled him, for there seemed to be a great deal many of Anne's intimate thoughts within the script, and yet it was so carefully phrased that he was slightly confused by the true message contained within. Anne Boleyn was such a skilled courtier that, even he, her lover for many years, wanted to laugh at the thought that she was still able to confuse him. Her letter was suggestive in many ways, and he was greatly appeased at the thought of Anne writing to him in candlelight, for surely it suggested that she had been thinking of him in the evening when it had been dark. From the letter, he took that she missed him, although he wasn't quite able to determine if she missed his love or being at his Court. And she had not acknowledged the existence of the boy, the child who was now becoming infamously known as 'Anne Boleyn's Bastard' in the English court, even though the boy had never set foot in England, nor had his parentage been confirmed.

The verse, however, inspired much hope, and the way she had signed her name, "Yours, always, with true heart, Anne Boleyn," indicated that she loved him still. Yet, in spite of her pretty words, she had made no mention of her desire to return to the English court, or return to him, and it was most troubling. As always, she had moved forward but drawn back, like the dancer that she was; one step in his direction, two steps to the side, moving her out of his reach.

This would not do, Henry decided.

He needed answers urgently, and if Moses would not come to the mountain...

* * *

**_Château de Versailles, Versailles. – February, 1536_**

The time it took for Henry's reply to arrive was surprising, and Anne was starting to feel concerned that he was planning on delivering his summons in person.

Because, of course, a summons would soon be arriving. Henry was not one to be denied, and she had been either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid to turn up her nose at his desires. For him to arrive in France, without her having received forewarning... It would be a disaster.

...

Two weeks into February, the English Ambassador landed with the tide, clutching a most important message for the Duchesse du Calais.

He delivered it with the upmost haste, almost forgetting his obligatory audience with King Francis to announce his return to the English court. Throughout said audience, Francis' glared at him, his penetrating brown eyes burning into the fine silk of his tunic, as if he could see the folded parchment stuffed into an inside pocket and read what was written upon it.

No doubt Anne had informed the French King of the message that the English ambassador would be carrying and if King Henry had, in fact, demanded that she return to the English court and King Francis refused to allow it, such a thing would be seen as an act of war. The Ambassador was not at all looking forward to the fall out.

He bowed hastily and waited to be excused. Francis left him bent at the waist for much longer than was necessary, and when the monarch eventually gave his consent for the Ambassador to straighten, his mouth was set in an angry grimace.

"Excellency, we have been told of a plot to steal from our court," Francis barked impatiently, his jaw clenching. "Surely you are not a part of such audacious plans?"

The Ambassador bowed again. "Forgive me, your Majesty, if I have caused offence."

Francis frowned. "It is not you that offends us." He flicked his fingers in dismissal and the Ambassador backed away, suddenly desperate to be rid of the parchment in his tunic.

...

"His Excellency, the English Ambassador."

Anne nodded in greeting as the man entered her chambers. "Your Excellency, welcome back."

The Ambassador sighed. "Thank you, Madame." He reached into his pocket and placed the letter on the table. "For you, your Grace – from his Majesty, King Henry." He seemed uncomfortable, and Anne smiled tiredly.

"By all means, Excellency, return to your chambers. No doubt you are weary after your journey; the seas are treacherous at this time of year, are they not?"

Nodding in reply, the Ambassador bowed lowly and made a hasty retreat.

Anne turned her attention to the letter, pulling a face as she unfurled it.

"_Dearest Anne,  
We hope that these words reach you in good time, and find you well._

I must express my gratitude at your thoughtful gift, and feel ashamed that I did not commission something equally as beautiful as a token of my affection for you. It pleases me that you take these words, instead, as a promise of my devotion to you. I do not hide my love behind pretty verses, Madame, and express it here freely.

_Our Ambassador tells us of a child that you have grown fond of; we would like to see this boy with our own eyes. It is our express wish that you meet us at Hampton Court for the Easter celebrations._

Yours, infinitely,  
Henry Rex"

Her hands trembled as she read. Well met, Henry Tudor, she thought. There was no mention of Katherine – not that she had expected there to be – and nor was there any inclination of how she would be treated when she returned to court. But there _was _a demand for her presence at the English court, and she wasn't foolish enough to decline a second time.

Calling in her maids, Anne instructed them to begin to pack up her apartments. If she was to meet Henry at Easter, there was much to be done, and very little time to do it in.

...

**TBC**


End file.
